If You're Into It
by shinigami nanoda
Summary: A collection of oneshots that chronicle Racetrack's (mostly) failed relationships. Modern Day. Language. Slash.
1. A Kiss Is Not A Contract

**AN: This is going to be a collection of related oneshots that chronicle Race's relationships. The plan is to have a good progression/growth, but we'll see if I can pull it off :) The title, as well as the chapter titles, are all Flight of the Conchords songs (which I do not own, but do love). Each chapter is inspired by a different song.**

* * *

Chapter 1: A Kiss Is Not A Contract

Race and Jack were sitting in Jack's living room, the TV playing softly in the background. Jack's arm was draped across Race's shoulders, warm and heavy. Slowly, Jack pulled Race towards him. Their lips met in a rush of teenage hormones. Race caught handfuls of Jack's shirt, pressing him closer. Their tongues explored each others' mouths, teeth scraping and nipping lightly. Jack threaded his fingers into the hair at the nape of Race's neck, and rested his other hand on Race's knee, tracing patterns with his finger.

"You know," Jack murmured in his ear, "my mom isn't going to be back tonight." His hand shifted further up Race's thigh, reinforcing his unspoken suggestion.

A stab of heat blossomed in Race's belly, followed shortly by an uncomfortable spark of something that felt like fear. Excitement warred with apprehension, sending shivers, both good and bad, up his spine. The feeling grew stronger as Jack's hand continued its ascent up his leg. Race put a hand softly on Jack's wrist, stilling his hand.

"Easy there, Cowboy."

"It'll be fun." Jack played with the button of Race's pants. "I promise."

"No, Jack." Race pushed Jack's hand away firmly.

"Don't be such a girl, Race," Jack replied sharply. Then he smiled, wiping the annoyance off his face. Jack tipped his head down to kiss Race.

Race leaned back, avoiding Jack's lips. "'Cause insulting me is really gonna make me want to put out."

"You're cute when you're mad," Jack drawled. He pushed Race back on the sofa and crawled forward, straddling his lap. His lips worked against Race's neck. Somehow Jack's hand ended up creeping under the waistband of Race's pants.

"Damn it Jack, cut it out!" Race yelled as he attempted to muscle Jack off him.

Jack leaned back, his smile gone. "Am I that unappealing?" Jack knew he was attractive. The question he was really asking was why Race was stupid enough to turn him down.

"You know that's not it," Race answered.

"Then what's the problem?" Jack prodded.

"We've been dating for under a month, Jack. I just don't want to yet," Race returned as he slid himself out from under Jack.

"But we've know each other forever," Jack argued.

"That's not the point, Jack."

Jack shifted further away, crossing his arms.

Race pursed his lips. "I think I should go."

"Let yourself out then." Jack's voice was cold, and Race heard him mutter the words 'fucking tease' under his breath as he walked to the door.

Race paused in the doorway, and looked back at Jack who was still sprawled on the sofa. "You're kind of an ass, Jack."

Race closed the door softly, resisting his urge to slam it shut. His anger burned slowly as he walked down the street. He raked his fingers through his hair. He was furious, both at Jack and at himself. He was mad at Jack for obvious reasons, and he was mad at himself because he already wanted Jack back. Less than ten minutes on his own, and he wanted to see Jack's easy smile, to feel the contact high from the confidence that exuded from Jack's very skin.

Race decided he was pathetic. It was not a pleasant realization.

* * *

Race sat at his desk, head cradled in his hands. He was still pathetic. He doodled listlessly on his homework; it was Friday night, and he no longer had anything better to do. Well, that wasn't entirely true, but he was indulging his bitterness.

He heard his window slide open, and didn't even look up at the familiar slip-thump of Spot slinking into his basement bedroom. Spot took in the sight of Race's slumped shoulders and unfinished math problems, and developed a pretty accurate idea of what had happened.

"So, you and Jack, huh?" Spot asked as he settled himself on the edge of Race's bed.

"I don't really think there's a me and Jack anymore," Race answered glumly.

"That bad?"

"Yeah." Race dropped his head onto the desk.

"Does it have something to do with the fact that Jack can be a sex-crazed douche?" Spot already had a hunch that it did.

Race snorted dryly. "Maybe. Apparently he doesn't like being shot down."

"Think he'll get over it?"

"I dunno." Race tucked his legs up onto the chair, rested his chin on his knees, and spun around to face Spot. "What was I thinking? I mean me and Jack? Like that was going to work."

"'Cause it's all your fault, right?" Sarcasm was as close as Spot got to sympathy.

"I screwed up, Spot," Race groaned.

"That sucks."

"Yeah."

* * *

The next week was awkward. Race wasn't sure where he and Jack stood with each other, but he was too proud bring it up first. So Race was doing his best to avoid Jack entirely. He was also trying to avoid thinking about how little time it took Jack to replace him. Only a few days passed before Jack had his arm thrown around a quiet curly haired boy with blue eyes. Race did his best to ignore the fact he was disposable, and tried not to take it too personally. He knew what Jack was like: Jack needed to be liked, he needed someone to impress.

Spot sat next to Race and watched as his eyes danced between Jack and the cafeteria food on his tray. He was tired of Race moping. It was time to do something about it.

Jack and Spot were not particularly close, but they were both at the top of the high school hierarchy. Jack was popular, while Spot was feared. Spot transcended the boundaries of the traditional cliques as a sort of enforcer. He knew everyone's dirty secrets, and wasn't afraid to use them to get what he wanted. And Spot always knew what he wanted.

Spot watched Jack and David together with a calculating gaze. There was something there, something he could use.

Spot caught Jack's eyes, and jerked his head toward the hallway. Then Spot walked out of the cafeteria without waiting to see if Jack would follow. He was leaning against the wall by the door when Jack stalked into the hall.

"You got something to say to me?" Jack turned to face him, bristling at the abrupt summons.

Spot just looked at him, and Jack did his best not to flinch under his cool stare.

"It's not my fault," Jack insisted.

Spot raised his eyebrow slightly.

"Are you gonna say something, or are you just enjoying the view?" Jack tried to provoke Spot into reacting.

Spot pushed himself away from the wall, enjoying how easy it was to get under Jack's skin. He sauntered slowly towards Jack. "You want to be an ass, that's none of my business. But you hurt Race, and then it is my business."

"It's not my fault he's a prude," Jack snapped.

Spot's lips twisted into a sly grin. "You really want your new pal Davey to find out why you dumped your last boyfriend?"

"We're not dating!" Jack protested, perhaps a little too strongly.

"Oh, so you won't mind when he finds out?" Spot widened his eyes in faux innocence.

Jack blanched. "You wouldn't."

"Wouldn't I?" Spot returned with a smirk.

Jack did his best to look unconcerned. "He wouldn't believe you."

"You want to bet on it?" Spot challenged.

Jack shrugged. He knew he couldn't win. To make it worse, he knew Spot was doing him a favor by talking to him without an audience present.

"If you didn't do anything wrong, why wouldn't you want him to know?" Spot asked pointedly.

Jack stared back sullenly.

"Just think about it," Spot threw the words over his shoulder as he walked away.

Jack did think about it, and it made him feel lousy.

* * *

Race sighed. It had been a long day. He got out of his class late, and was disappointed that Spot hadn't waited for him. He knew Spot was getting fed up with the funk he was in, and that made him feel worse. Race shuffled through the hallways, textbooks clasped in his arms. The corridor was deserted, except for a lone figure loitering by Race's locker. Race briefly considered turning around and walking away, but he figured he have to deal with Jack sooner or later, so he might as well get it over with now.

"You mind moving out of the way?" Race kept his face blank.

Jack slid to the side as Race opened his locker. "Look, I'm sorry. I was a jerk," Jack mumbled without making eye contact, clearly unused to apologizing.

"Yeah. You were." Race shoved his books into his locker, closed the door, and turned to face Jack. "So you're sorry."

"I am," Jack sounded sincere.

"I'm not taking you back." Race tried not to wince at the look of relief on Jack's face.

"No, uh, that's not what I was getting at," Jack had the good grace to look embarrassed. "I just wanted to apologize."

"Whatever." Both of them knew that 'whatever' meant 'it's okay'.

"Still friends?" Jack stuck out his hand, his face hopeful.

"God, and you called me a girl?" Race scoffed.

"C'mon Race, please?"

Race didn't have the heart to say no. His lips twisted into a slight smile as grasped Jack's hand. "If you hug me, I will knee you in the nuts."

Jack laughed and pulled him closer, but he angled his hips away just to be safe.


	2. Hurt Feelings

Chapter 2: Hurt Feelings

Dinner and a movie was not Race's ideal date, particularly when dinner involved the sub shop in the mall's food court. Race and Skittery chomped on their sandwiches and sipped on their sodas, using full mouths as an excuse to keep the awkward small talk to a minimum.

Race wondered how rude it would be to bail before the movie. Then he wondered if he cared. He was tired of being set up on dates by Jack. Race realized this was Jack's way of atoning for what had happened, but none of the dates went well. Jack really stunk as a matchmaker.

His eyes wandered over the crowd and landed on a woman who was yelling at the cashier while waving her sandwich around vigorously. It was impossible to make out words, but she was clearly furious about something. Race rolled his eyes; what could possibly be so wrong with a five dollar sub that warranted cursing out a high school kid? Suddenly the wrapping of the woman's hoagie came undone, and her sandwich ended up spread all over the front of her shirt. Apparently she ordered the meatball. Race snickered, and looked over as he heard Skittery laugh as well. Their eyes met. Maybe the date wouldn't be so bad.

After that, the conversation started flowing a little easier. They talked about their plans for college; it turned out they were both hoping to study music. They discovered that they shared a love of Mel Brooks movies and Daft Punk. Race decided that Jack might not completely suck as a matchmaker.

When they finished eating, Race reached out to grab the paper wrappers and carry them to the trashcan. Skittery stretched out his arm at the same moment, and their hands collided. Fire blazed across Race's skin. He looked up at Skittery, who was still staring at their hands. His eyes were wide underneath the fringe of brown curls; Race was relieved to see that he wasn't the only one affected by the skin to skin contact. Skittery dropped his hand, allowing Race to scoop up their trash. They walked to the movie theater, brushing and grazing hands and arms as casually as they could. It was awkward, but they both craved the contact.

They sat in the back of the theater, and once the lights dimmed and the screen lit up, their self-consciousness disappeared. Their legs pressed together, knee to thigh. Skittery's hand was on the back of Race's neck, his thumb rubbing small circles at the base of Race's skull. The hairs on the back of Race's neck stood up, a surge of electricity dancing across his skin. In retaliation, Race slipped his arm over the armrest, his hand dangling, fingertips brushing Skittery's leg. He smiled in the dark at the sharp intake of breath. Skittery's fingers tightened in his hair, pulling slightly, and it was Race's turn to muffle a gasp.

The date ended with Race and Skittery making out against the side of Skittery's car, neither one wanting to be the first to break away.

* * *

Every time Race and Skittery saw each other, they toed the line a little more. Race found himself going further with Skittery than he planned, but he didn't care. It felt right. It was terrifying, and it was completely irresistible.

There was something about Skittery that made Race want more. Maybe it was the way his skin seemed to glow in the moonlight. Maybe it was the way his brown eyes clouded with need, the way his voiced deepened to a husky growl as he ran out of breath. There was something so intoxicating about the feeling of short fingernails being drawn over the skin of his back. Race was addicted.

Race looked down at the lanky body pinned between his legs. His eyes roved hungrily over Skittery's bare chest, which shone with a light sheen of sweat. Long fingers hooked around the back of his neck, pulling his face down and crushing their mouths together. Race's thoughts drowned in the blood pulsing in his ears, and in glorious friction.

It was pure instinct, and he wanted more.

* * *

Slowly, Skittery and Race's relationship devolved. It became more and more physical, pushing out everything else. They didn't really talk much anymore, and they were drifting apart. So Race clung to the one thing they had left, and hoped things would turn around. He hoped it was simply the stress of college applications and preparing for auditions, on top of everyday schoolwork, but he doubted it.

Race held his phone up to his ear, waiting for Skittery to answer.

"Hello?" Skittery sounded nervous.

"Hey Skitts."

"Hey Race."

"You want to see a movie tonight?"

"I'm pretty busy," Skittery brushed of the invitation. "I've got a lot of practicing and stuff to get done."

"We could grab coffee?"

"I dunno, Race. I'm sort of swamped right now."

The rejection hurt, even though Race knew it was coming. "Maybe next time."

"Yeah," Skittery didn't sound very positive. "Look, I'll call you later, okay?"

"Sure," Race sighed. "Bye."

Skittery hung up.

It was Friday afternoon. Race was bored and lonely, and had no plans. He convinced Jack to drop him off at the mall, hoping that the crowd would make him feel less alone. He wandered through stores, trying to push Skittery out of his mind. Race eventually strolled towards the coffee shop, intending to hype up on caffeine and people watch.

Then Race saw him.

Skittery stood across the courtyard, examining a display in a store window, his long fingers curled around the arm of a shy looking boy with large front teeth. Race watched as Skittery trailed those fingers lightly down the boy's arm, and twined their hands together. Race watched him press a light kiss to the boys temple, and as his lips curved into an unguarded smile.

Race's heart fell into his stomach.

Skittery never smiled at him like that.

Race's gut twisted, and he thought he might throw up.

A nasty, malicious side of Race wanted to call Skittery right now, just to see the look on his face. He couldn't do it, though. He couldn't ruin something that made someone else so happy,

Race didn't know what to do, so he walked home.

* * *

When Spot slid into his room, Race was sprawled on his bed, face buried in a pillow. Race was drained. He called Skittery that night, and the conversation had been difficult. At least it was over. Maybe he could lie on his bed forever and forget how terrible he felt.

"How'd you know?" Race's question was muffled, as he didn't bother moving.

Spot shrugged. "A little bird told me."

Race groaned into his pillow. That meant everyone would know soon.

"I got something for you." Spot announced, as he set a paper bag on the desk, and Race turned his head at the sound of glass clinking.

"You planning on getting me drunk, Spot?"

"Only if you want to," Spot answered.

Race considered it. The last time he had been drunk was the party Jack threw for his eighteenth birthday, and that hadn't ended so well. Race winced mentally. But Spot wouldn't let him do anything stupid.

"Also, I brought this." Spot pulled a small case out of the bag and tossed it towards Race, interrupting his train of thought.

"You brought Gremlins!" Race exclaimed as he sat up, his face brightening. "It's like we're actually friends, or something," Race quipped as he cocked an eyebrow at Spot.

"Shut up." Spot didn't mind being nice, but he hated his generosity being acknowledged.

They sat on Race's bed, gulping gin and ginger ale, and basking in the dim glow of the laptop screen. Spot felt Race turn and looked over, straight into wide brown eyes that were brimming with emotion.

"You know the rule about hugging, Race," Spot said as he turned back to the movie.

"But you're so nice to me!" Race's words slurred together.

"Yeah. It's like we're actually friends," Spot repeated Race's jab. "Now watch the movie, and stop getting mushy on me."

Race turned back to the screen in time to see Mrs. Deagle's stair-lift malfunction.


End file.
